Time Goes On
by c1araoswa1d
Summary: Tumblr Whouffle Prompt: After the "death" of Eleven, Clara tries to cope by writing novels inspired by her adventures with him and the adventures she wishes she had with him. A few of her students have read her books and ask her where she gets her inspiration to write them.


Clara doesn't write to tell a story; she writes to remember.

Sometimes she feels like it's been too many years to count – her days with the Doctor – but when she turns on her computer and she begins to type away feverishly at the keys, she can see him clearly in her head. Of course, she sees her Doctor. The idiot who showed up at her doorstep in a monk's suit and then swapped it out for the purple tweed that always made her smile because it was as beautifully ridiculous as he was.

The uncontrollably flop of hair, the awkward length of legs, the enormous chin she teased him about mercilessly when they were alone in the Tardis. Clara remembered the Eleventh always moreso than the Twelfth. With his gaping laugh, almost always accompanied by a turn of his hands or a twirl of his body, and most certainly with that gleam in his eyes. Always ready for another adventure; another discovery; another wonderful thing.

She could easily see him dancing about the console, slender fingers reaching out for controls she never fully mastered, and he maneuvered them into the time vortex with a quick rattling off of planets and places, of dates and times, of alien races and odd words she struggled to jot down from memory – but she does. Clara thinks on them until they come back to her and she describes them all in the flowery words that flow from his mouth.

But she writes about more than just where they went. Clara writes about them. Usually with tissues at her side because she can still hear the way his voice melodically soothed her each night she spent aboard the Tardis with him. She can still feel the way he leaned too close when they sat on her couch to watch some film, plates of fish fingers and custard settled in their laps… as though he could never be close enough on those random occasions she forced him to stay in.

"_Staying in, Clara? With the whole universe _literally_ at our fingertips_?"

"_Doctor, sometimes staying in is _good_ for you_!"

It was those moments she strove to capture, moreso than the rest, because those were the moments she could almost trick herself into believing he was human. Those moments where she could convince herself she was more than just a travelling companion. Those moments where she let her defenses down and urged him to do the same. And it was those moments she cherished most.

"_Playing a board game? It doesn't happen to be chess_."

"_No, Doctor, it's Trouble_."

"_Well, we could find that in the Tardis any old day_."

"_Oh hush and sit down_."

He was never good with normality. Settling down for tea, walking about the park, cleaning up the house after he'd destroyed it by bringing home a box of Tribbles on a Saturday evening. But he tried. Clara always knew he was trying… for her. She'd caught him talking to himself in the toilet once, telling his reflection to play it cool, to do the girl things – the human things – because there wouldn't be much time.

"_Much time for what_?"

"_To appreciate you_."

She supposed it was the same with all of his companions. He thought he had forever because in comparison, he did. They travelled and they saved the day and they returned with their battle wounds and their concerns and eventually they left. They left and the Doctor hadn't taken the time to enjoy _the human things_.

So he tried with her. He went to the grocers and questioned her about everything in her cart and ended up in the back butchers with his Sonic examining the machines. He stood by her side at the physician's as they drew blood and he grimaced and lamented about technology needing to advance so she wouldn't have to suffer. The Doctor showed her how horrible someone could be at bowling and she demonstrated her incredible lack of balance on skates and for a time they had their adventures together.

In space and on Earth.

And then it was done.

_And Clara wrote_.

But she didn't expect anyone she knew to find the books. She'd never expected anyone to read them, except she knew people did. They were online, submitted in the hopes that she could earn extra cash for retirement; published under a false name… and people read them.

"Ms. Oswald?" The question came from a young boy in the middle of the classroom on a Friday afternoon as she was wrapping up a lecture on proper punctuation and when she turned, she could hear the murmur pass through the class – as though the student had drawn the short straw to ask the question they were all too afraid to ask. "We've… um, we've found these books on the internet and we were, uh, we were wondering if possibly…" he trailed, sliding slightly in his chair before looking around at the eyes darting between him and her at the front of the class, "We were wondering if possibly you'd written them."

She smiled, awkwardly, and settled the eraser between her hands before asking shyly, "What books might they be?"

He straightened and picked the tablet out of his backpack to raise towards her and as she approached him, cold spell working its way through her body, he told her, "The Adventures of the Doctor and Oswin."

Clara's fingers touched the edge of the tablet and for a moment she froze, seeing out of her peripheral, the faces on all of the students in the classroom. All of them trained on her, all of them slowly coming to the realization that she was, indeed, the author, and as she took the tablet to gaze down at the cover – the drawing of the awkward man and the slender woman at his side – she smiled and sighed.

"I suppose you've discovered my secret," she told them all, listening to the nervous laughter that broke out as she turned the cover and shrugged, "Yes, I write these and…" she stopped, looking over the wide eyes that waited, "You read them?"

There was a general rumble of consensus.

"I assign actual books," Clara laughed, watching their faces redden, "And you read this rubbish?"

She handed the tablet back and dropped into an empty seat, settling the eraser on the desk next to her to smile out at them as they chewed on lips and exchanged glances. The boy held his tablet in his hand as he told her quietly, "They're not rubbish."

"They're exciting," another boy called, ducking his head when she turned.

A girl just beside her sighed, "They're romantic."

Clara laughed; the boys groaned.

"They seem a bit…" the same girl began before finishing, "Real."

"Well," Clara replied on a nod, "All of my stories are true."

They all laughed just as the bell rang and she remained seated as they filed out, calling out to remind them of homework before she finally stood and made her way back up to the front. She lifted the eraser and went back to rubbing it across the board when she heard the shuffle of feet come to stand just behind her desk.

"Ms. Oswald?"

It was the boy who'd originally asked, rubbing a finger across his nose as he waited, and Clara turned to look at him fully, offering a small nod, "What is it, Gareth?"

"He's real, isn't he," he told her quickly, passing a glance back at the door before shifting back to whisper, "The Doctor."

She smiled and she nodded her head, bending slightly to whisper back, "Yes, Gareth, he is."

"I believe you," he admitted. He half turned, but stopped himself, swinging back to ask, "Why did you stop travelling with him? It seemed like you had loads of fun."

Clara straightened and she glanced sideways at her purse, knowing if she looked inside she would find the photos of her husband and her two sons, and she looked back to Gareth to tell him honestly, "He couldn't be human enough."


End file.
